


Team Dynamics

by My_Alter_Ego



Category: White Collar
Genre: Coercion, Drugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Mental Torture, Police Brutality, Profiling, Psychological Manipulation, Serial Killer, vengeance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-02
Updated: 2018-09-22
Packaged: 2019-07-05 22:14:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15872769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Alter_Ego/pseuds/My_Alter_Ego
Summary: Someone is killing members of Peter Burke’s White Collar team, one by one. The FBI is stymied in their search for the murderer. When Neal suddenly finds himself in the evil person’s crosshairs, Peter leaves the reservation and goes rogue to protect his CI.





	1. Chapter 1

Neal Caffrey found himself in his usual spot as a passenger in Peter Burke’s car. The CI was not very happy being there. This was the beginning of the long 4th of July weekend, and Peter was perilously maneuvering his way around heavy traffic in a dogged attempt to escape the confines of the city. It seemed as if every driver had a summer holiday destination in mind, and the endpoint of Neal and Peter’s journey was five long hours away. At this juncture, the FBI agent had been flipped the bird by other irate motorists at least four times—Neal had been counting.

“Please, tell me again why we’re going to Gettysburg, Pennsylvania?” Neal asked plaintively as they finally were able to access Interstate 78 and proceed in a somewhat southwesterly direction.

“Because Steve Brennan was murdered there yesterday, and he was one of my team,” Peter answered tersely.

“But the local police are all over it, Peter,” Neal said logically. “They’ve forwarded all the evidence and their findings to you, so you know as much as they do right now. Why is it necessary to see the actual crime scene?”

“Because this was personal, Neal,” Peter responded through clenched teeth. “Brennan was one of mine, and I owe it to him to be thorough and get involved in catching his killer.”

“What exactly was he doing in Gettysburg?” Neal wanted to know. “Was he working some case for you?”

“No, he wasn’t,” Peter acknowledged. “Brennan was actually on vacation and enjoying his hobby. He was reenacting.”

“Reenacting?” Neal was puzzled. “Reenacting what?”

“Pickett’s Charge,” Peter answered succinctly.

Now Neal knew even less than he knew before, and the con man felt out of the loop. For the CI, that was not a comfortable place be. Neal sighed and finally bit the bullet, quite embarrassed to admit his ignorance. “Okay, Partner, that was beyond cryptic. I’m sitting in the dark over here, so shine some light, please.”

“I take it that you’re not an American history buff,” Peter responded drolly as he looked over at his partner. “You’re early education seems to have been a bit lacking if you never learned about the Civil War.”

“I was busy learning other things,” Neal smirked.

Peter frowned at the innuendo, but then launched into an explanation.

“During the three days of July 1st through July 3rd of 1863, a series of epic Civil War battles between Union and Confederate troops took place in what was then rural Pennsylvania. Some historians say the results of those bloody encounters were the turning point of the war. Confederate General Robert E. Lee was determined to take the focus of the war away from besieged Virginia and make inroads into the North. His plan was to break the backs of the Union in Gettysburg, and then proceed as far north as Philadelphia. Infantrymen and cavalry on both sides came together in numerous skirmishes with tremendous losses of lives on both sides. On the third day of the campaign, there was a massive assault by the Confederates against the Union line at Cemetery Ridge, and that last ditch effort by the Johnny Rebs was known as Pickett’s Charge. The Confederate army were the losers in the encounter and hastily retreated back down to the South.”

“Okay, so now I’m historically enlightened,” Neal said slowly. “How does this connect to Steve Brennan?”

“Brennan, as I said, was a reenactor. He belonged to a group of like-minded individuals who consider themselves to be living historians. They dress in period costumes and come together to recreate some scene from a past that only remains alive in history books. Apparently, it’s a pretty popular pastime and it draws a fairly sizable following of participants from every strata. These dedicated enthusiasts attempt to duplicate events down to the smallest detail, and people come from miles around to watch soldiers from another era fight and die just as real Civil War soldiers did. The 135th anniversary of Gettysburg back in 1998 was the most attended reenactment, drawing over 20,000 people over the course of three days.”

“Well, I guess everybody needs a hobby,” Neal said charitably. “Some people raise orchids, some people do crafts, and some people even attempt silly little crossword puzzles in their spare time.” Neal couldn’t help the snicker that followed that last claim.

“And _some_ people paint forgeries!” Peter snarked.

Neal just rewarded Peter with a dazzling smile before becoming serious again. “So, I take it that Brennan was killed during a reenactment of Pickett’s Charge.”

“Yes, he was. It actually took some time before that fact was discovered. A lot of soldiers fell on the battlefield that day, and his fellow compatriots thought it was all part of the show. They saw the blood on his chest, of course, but just assumed it was from a dye pack under his uniform to make the wound look authentic. The real historical battle took over an hour, so that’s how long the reenactment lasted. When Brennan didn’t finally rise up from the dead after the spectators left, his very real death was finally discovered. He had been shot, and the coroner managed to extricate a specific type of ammo fired from a modern-day sniper rifle.”

“Does the Pennsylvania PD have any suspects in mind?” Neal asked. “If there was a sizable audience attending the show, surely somebody had to have seen something.”

Peter sighed. “There were several thousand people in the crowd, but the cops have determined that the kill shot was fired from a nearby wooded ridge. Their forensics team is using models of trajectories to try and locate the actual sniper’s nest. So far, they haven’t been successful, and they’ve got zilch to go on.”

“Just what do you think that you can uncover that they can’t, Peter?” Neal asked.

“This is something that I have to do, Neal. Just leave it at that!” Peter responded mysteriously.

Neal was savvy enough to know when to shut up. Obviously Peter had an agenda that he wasn’t willing to share, and Neal would have to bide his time to ferret out his own discoveries.

~~~~~~~~~~

The two men finally exited the Interstate sometime later and accessed Route 15 which took them into Gettysburg, Pennsylvania. The small town was a bustling beehive of activity with the remnants of the reenacting troops breaking camp and getting ready to depart. Bivouac tents were being dismantled and horses were being loaded into equine transportation vans. Neal saw a multitude of men dressed in various uniforms, not just in what he assumed would be the traditional garb of dark blue and gray. It appeared that ragtag regiments from far away states each had their own peculiar uniform displaying various colors. While strolling down a line of temporary vendor tents, he got an up-close-and-personal look at what passed for a specific brigade’s battle clothing. There were also multitudes of other Civil War memorabilia, including canteens, powder horns, muskets, rifles, and sabers. It seemed that there was a whole cottage industry dedicated to preserving the past. Neal considered buying himself a modern-day replica of a Confederate General’s hat, complete with impressive gold braid. Neal liked hats, and if he appeared in the FBI office one morning wearing a rebel gray Stetson, the gesture wouldn’t be lost on his handler. But then good sense overrode his whimsy, and he settled for a miniature Civil War canon. Neal tucked it into his pocket as an esoteric knickknack for Mozzie.

Peter spent the greater part of the next two hours in deep discussion with detectives from the local police department as well as other FBI agents. He even walked the field where Brennan had fallen the day before. Neal was left behind to fend for himself. He chatted up an attractive young woman from Ohio who was packing up her array of Civil War memorabilia. Neal helped her with the task of carefully wrapping old uniform buttons, medals, and musket balls before placing them in protective cases for transport back to Cleveland. By the time that Peter finally found his CI, it was almost late evening.

“It’s hard to believe that some people actually transform themselves with personally unidentifiable clothing, assume different personas, and then boldly engage in outrageous feats simply for the fun of it,” the con man mused as they made their way to the car.

“Just like a certain someone I know,” Peter mumbled as he went around to the driver’s side of the car.

“I heard that!” Neal crowed.

The FBI agent settled into his seat and decreed that they should get some dinner, and a bit later found them having a meal in a local tavern. Peter was unnaturally quiet and wasn’t into sharing intel, so Neal tucked into his steak and was respectful of the ominous silence. However, the curious young man found it very difficult to be kept in the dark, so he had to ask the question that had been nagging at him the entire day.

“Peter, why did I have to come along on this little field trip? I mean, it wasn’t as if you needed or even asked for my help.”

Peter looked earnestly at his CI. “Because I wanted you right by my side where I could keep an eye on you, Buddy.”

“Peter, I’m wounded,” Neal huffed out a disgruntled sigh. “When are you ever going to trust me?”

“Just get over it, Neal,” Peter said sharply, not actually answering Neal’s question.

“Well, that’s hard to do, Peter,” the con man objected. “Being joined at the hip with you isn’t exactly loads of fun, especially considering your present mood.”

Peter ignored Neal’s complaints as he became busy punching keys on his smart phone. “It’s too late in the day for another 5-hour marathon trek back to New York City. There’s a Motel 6 not far away. Now that the reenactment is over, they should have a room available for the night. We can leave for home early tomorrow morning after breakfast.”

“Motel 6,” Neal intoned with a shiver and a look of distaste. “Right—they always leave the light on for you, or so their slogan says.”

Peter sighed. “I’m sorry that the FBI’s travel budget doesn’t accommodate your exacting standards, Neal. You’ll just have to suck it up for one night.”

When they initially walked into their modest double-bed room in the motel, Neal made a beeline for a hot shower. He carefully hung up his shirt and suit so that he could wear the same clothes the next morning. Unfortunately, nothing could be done about the underwear, so he contemplated going commando. When he reentered the small room, Peter was already under the covers of one of the beds and had the television tuned to a baseball game. After some surreptitious glances from the adjacent bed, Neal realized Peter wasn’t watching the action on the baseball diamond. He was actually staring into space.

“Okay, Partner, enough with the mysterious brooding silence,” Neal hissed. “Tell me what’s really going on.”

“I told you, Neal. I’m investigating Brennan’s murder,” Peter insisted.

“Right, sure, I get that—at least I think I do,” Neal agreed. “But there’s more to this story. Why are we so far out of our jurisdiction when the local branch of the FBI could easily handle it?”

“Because this is personal, Neal, just like I told you before,” Peter snapped. Then the stressed FBI agent felt a pang of guilt following his curt behavior. Taking a deep breath, he forged on. “Actually, if I want to be precise, it’s more like a vendetta,” he acknowledged with a grimace.

Looking at Neal’s raised eyebrows, Peter finally let his guard down and his CI in. “This isn’t the first time that a member of my team has been mysteriously murdered. Brennan was actually the third fatality. A little over a year ago, Ed Parlance was killed while he was on a winter vacation in the Catskills. He had gone up there for a week of skiing, and the brakes on his car failed when he was coming down a steep mountain and couldn’t negotiate a hairpin curve on the winding road. He went over a cliff and was killed on impact. Later inspection of the vehicle showed that the brake line was frayed. It could have been normal wear and tear, but his car only had 25,000 or so miles on it and that was unlikely. The case went nowhere, and it remains open to this day.

Just six months ago, George Wyatt died when he was fishing on one of the Finger Lakes in Upstate New York during his downtime away from the office. Wyatt was another of my original hand-picked White Collar team when I first set up the unit. After a few years, he said he was bored and transferred to Ruiz’s Violent Crimes Section. It was determined that a bomb had been detonated aboard his water craft, and the authorities just assumed that it was The Mob’s handiwork since Ruiz had been investigating them and Wyatt was his point man in the task force. And now, just yesterday, Brennan is murdered in front of thousands of people, and the perp is getting away again and leaving absolutely no trace."

“So, this is probably not some weird coincidence or a cautionary tale warning FBI agents not to take vacations,” Neal said with dread. “These men were targeted, and you think it all leads back to your doorstep, Peter?”

“I don’t think—I know!” Peter said vehemently as he sprang up from the bed and retrieved a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his suit jacket. He held it out for Neal to read. It was a copy of an email sent to Peter yesterday, and the missive had “ _Team Dynamics_ ” typed in the subject line. However, the message was unsigned by the sender.

_“How does it feel to see your special handpicked team being decimated one by one, Agent Burke? I’m not finished yet. More will come to an ignominious end and their deaths will be your fault.”_

“Wow, that was short and to the point,” Neal breathed out.

“Exactly,” Peter agreed. “Apparently the perp thought that I was too dim to make the connection, so he hammered me over the head with it. I suppose it is on me. I didn’t ultimately connect the dots because the murders were spread over time in multiple jurisdictions and were initially handled by the local authorities. I should have seen it sooner. Then maybe Brennan wouldn’t have died.”

“Peter, you’re being too hard on yourself. You couldn’t have known that some nutcase was gunning for White Collar agents.”

“Well, I know it now,” Peter proclaimed. “That’s why I didn’t want to leave you alone in New York, Neal, like some unsuspecting sitting duck.”

“But this person is taking out FBI agents, Peter, and I’m about as far from a Fed as you can get,” Neal argued.

“But you _are_ a member of my team, Buddy,” Peter stated ominously, “a member personally ‘handpicked’ by me!”


	2. Chapter 2

Peter and Neal departed for New York City just after the sun rose. They reached Manhattan before lunch and entered the conference room on the 21st floor of the FBI Building after just a quick stop home for fresh clothes. Reese Hughes had the “Harvard Crew,” as Peter liked to call his team, assembled around the long rectangular table. Most were in the dark about the impromptu command performance, but everyone assumed something big was going down. They were not disappointed as Peter made them aware of recent developments. This was the first that they had heard of their coworker’s death, and each member of the team was shocked and appalled. Peter then passed around the threatening email printout.

“Could the eggheads in Tech nail down where this originated?” one of the agents asked.

“No, they couldn’t,” Hughes answered. “From what I’ve been told, it bounced around the world through various unidentifiable proxy servers before it landed in Agent Burke’s email box. So, we have to assume that this killer is technologically skilled, which means he could have hacked our database at some point to identify each member of the White Collar team and track them. Our own computer geniuses are checking for any breaches in our firewall. To date, they haven’t detected any anomalies, but it’s still early days.”

Agents around the table were shifting uncomfortably in their chairs as Hughes continued to address the assembly. “Needless to say, my first order of business is to cancel any previously approved annual or vacation leave. That may upset a few household plans with your families, but I want to err on the side of caution. Most of you work from the office, but some of you do physically pursue cases out on the street. For the foreseeable future, I’d like to limit that exposure, if possible.”

“Are you saying that we should hunker down and cower like scared rabbits, Agent Hughes?” one bold team member dared to ask. “Steve Brennan was my friend as well as my professional colleague, and I intend to be front and center for his burial!”

Hughes sighed. “I am not saying that you stop doing your jobs, nor should you curtail your duties as federal agents or commitments as friends. This entire unit, myself included, _will_ attend any funeral or memorial service that Agent Brennan’s family has planned. We will stand together in solidarity as well as in determination to find his killer. However, I am mandating that whenever an agent from this unit leaves the building, they will have a protective vest under their clothing.”

Some hushed grumbling ensued, and Hughes managed to catch a whispered comment of “a vest can’t protect you from a head shot.” He chose to ignore that opinion because it was absolutely true. He couldn’t protect them from some lethal coward without a face who struck from the shadows, but he was determined to try his best.

“Agents, I do not intend to wring my hands and wait for another murder to occur. I intend to be proactive. Although we’re getting a late start identifying a dangerous threat to us all, we’re going to work this case as diligently as we do any other. If you will recall from your classes when you were raw recruits in Quantico, three murders that are linked earmark this perpetrator as a serial killer. That means that the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Washington DC gets involved. The team of profilers arrived last night and have been hard at work trying to piece together a mosaic of the killer, or ‘unsub,’ as he is termed in their vernacular.”

Reese Hughes then introduced the tall man who had been leaning casually against the wall during the briefing. Apparently, he was the spokesperson for the psychological panel of experts, and would be addressing them now with some hastily drawn conclusions based on years of research into the mindset of pathologically disturbed individuals with a bent for murder.

“Ladies and Gentleman,” he began solemnly, “as Agent Hughes has said, it is still ‘early days’ in this investigation, so our profile is broad and rather generic at this point. It is ‘somewhat’ specific, but certainly not specific enough at this point to narrow down the unsub. However, rest assured that we are available for the duration, and as time passes and more definitive facts are unearthed, we will fine-tune our assumptions and, hopefully, make them more workable and useful for all of you.”

The soft-spoken man had everyone’s undivided attention, and agents were pulling our note pads and pens from inside their jackets.

“We believe this unsub is a male between the ages of 30-45. He is what is termed an ‘organized serial killer’—a methodical planner with above average intelligence. He has a variety of skills that are quite formidable. He knows his way around computers, is a very competent marksman, and is capable of tinkering under a car hood as well as fashioning a rudimentary bomb detonated by a cellphone. He is also patient, like a spider in a web awaiting its prey. He thinks things through and maintains a high degree of control before and during the act, ensuring that he leaves no trace of himself behind at the crime scenes. This could mean that he might have previous forensic knowledge. So, he could have worked or still works in law enforcement, or even in the military. Perhaps that may be where he acquired his sniper skills. That is an avenue worth exploring.

Now, as to his motivation—we believe it really isn’t about the individual victims. They were just pawns that the unsub used in this chess game of power and control. His true intent is to prove how superior he is to his victims—both intellectually and in actual prowess. Specifically, he wants to make everyone aware of how helpless they are to stop him from killing. However, we believe that your boss—Agent Burke—is the real target of this person’s wrath for some reason that only the killer knows. The unsub is making Peter Burke suffer by watching his White Collar team being slaughtered, one by one, while he has no idea how to stop it.”

The profiler now turned to Peter. “With that in mind, we would advocate that you revisit all the arrests of highly intelligent and motivated White Collar criminals that you have made over time. Go back a minimum of at least five years to see who you have put away in prison. This unsub’s cooling off period is about six months—that’s the quiescent period between the first murder a year ago and the subsequent one six months later. That means this unsub may have been incarcerated for a short length of time in a low security facility, and who later regained his freedom because of good behavior. It may pan out if you could pinpoint some suspects and it leads us down the right path.”

The White Collar agents under siege were unconsciously nodding their heads as was Peter. He had been thinking along the same lines. This was something concrete that he could attack, and a viable starting point that he and his team could sink their teeth into. But the profiler wasn’t done yet.

“Now, this last slaying of Agent Brennan followed the same pattern of a six-month cooling off period. However, yesterday there was a distinct deviation in the killer’s methodology,” the profiler stated as he picked up the copy of the email. “He’s ramping up his game by being taunting and boastful. Maybe Agent Burke was too slow on the uptake for the unsub’s liking, so, like a pontificating bully, he sent the email. Power and control are what it’s all about for him, and promoting terror is his game. He’s just like fright mongers all around the globe who want people to live in fear. Anxiety, distress, and horror—those emotions are like an aphrodisiac to this man, and it gives him the gratification and vindication that he thinks he deserves. Make no mistake—this killer is far from finished with his mission. He won’t simply fade away into obscurity. He won’t stop until he is caught and forced to give up his deadly campaign.

 With that being said, all bets are off as to the length of time before the next attempt on an agent’s life. Do not fall into his trap of being complacent and think that you have months to investigate. You may not have that luxury. Before this email arrived, the unsub was able to cope for half a year before he set the next part of his plan into motion. Perhaps this brazen, in-your-face email heralded a decompensation in the unsub’s psyche. We are theorizing that he is “devolving,” or starting to fray around the edges. Any nebulous event, which we call a ‘trigger,’ might mark a tipping point for him where he deviates from his former pattern. He needs his next fix, and that very well may be another agent’s untimely death.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Peter and his team filed out of the conference room and set to work with a determined focus. Unit probies scoured the old files tucked away in the archives, and all day long new rolling carts brought stacks of manila folders to the office that were quickly divvied up for close perusal. Lunch and dinner meals were delivered as agents ignored the usual quitting time and kept up the tedious task. By nine that night, only Peter, Neal, Jones, and Diana remained.

“Go home, guys,” Peter told his closest friends and allies. “It’s been a really long day for everybody. We can pick this up again tomorrow with fresh eyes.”

“Just be careful, Peter,” Diana implored as she clumsily strapped on her vest. Jones was doing the same. Neal had picked his up from his desk and was looking at the garment with disdain.

“This is really going to ruin the lines of my suit,” he said morosely.

“Oh, stop whining, Caffrey,” Diana sniped. “It’s not like that thing’s going to be crushing _your_ boobs as flat as a pancake. Now _that’s_ definitely not a good look on me!”

“All of you must be careful,” Peter interrupted the grumbling byplay. “I don’t need the angst of another murder on my conscience.”

“We’re going to get this bastard, Peter,” Jones said vehemently. “It’s only a matter of time before he’s in our crosshairs.”

Peter just gave a rueful little smile. He wasn’t so sure about that prediction.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal made it home to June’s mansion without incident, and tiredly trudged up the stairs to his loft. He found that he had a guest awaiting him. Mozzie, with wine glass in hand, roused himself from a Zen-like state.

“So, the hunters have become the hunted,” the bald man said smugly.

Neal scowled at his little cohort in crime. “How do you even know these things, Moz?”

“I have my ways,” Mozzie simpered.

“Yeah, well, do your wise, omniscient oracles have any idea who is behind this current problem?” Neal asked.

“My sources haven’t a clue,” Mozzie admitted, “but I have put some wheels into motion. My hacker friend, Sally, is trying to track down that infamous email that the Suit received. She’ll call me if she makes some headway.”

“And, in the meantime, the White Collar crew is walking around with bull’s eyes on their backs,” Neal said glumly.

“Need I remind you, mon frère, that you are now part of that little peanut gallery?” Mozzie said softly. “The Suit must think that’s the case, so I suppose that’s why your torso suddenly looks a bit bulkier. Unfortunately, a tactical vest is but a pitiful stopgap measure—short-sighted and ineffectual if this killer really wants you dead.”

“Gee, Moz, thanks for the supportive and reassuring pep talk,” Neal remarked facetiously.

“Well, if you lay down with dogs, you can’t complain when you get fleas,” Mozzie retorted.

When Neal continued to look depressed, Mozzie felt the need to continue the conversation. “Its hard to get into the head of a serial killer,” he mused. “Their minds are serpentine labyrinths—perversely twisted and sometimes illogical. However, their warped and distorted reasons make sense to them. I certainly can’t explain it. Serial killers could simply be demented souls who came into this world with a misshapen gene or a fractured connection in their frontal lobe. Meanwhile, the bleeding hearts of our civilized society would argue that these sociopaths are a product of their early environment and shouldn’t have to be held accountable for their actions. Nature versus nurture—an age-old conundrum with no empirical data to substantiate it. Nevertheless, when all is said and done, the fact remains that demons do walk among us, and White Collar has now become the focus of one particular demon’s plague."

~~~~~~~~~~

The next two days found the FBI unit continuing to dig deep into the lives of past criminals who could have an agenda. They took a break on the third day to don conservative dark suits and take their places at the interment of their colleague. Six fellow FBI agents solemnly ferried Steve Brennan’s mahogany coffin from the black hearse to the recently-dug grave that was surrounded by copious floral displays. As a rainy drizzle started to fall, they stood stoically, shoulder to shoulder, and listened to Peter Burke deliver a heart-felt eulogy as a new widow sobbed.

High up on a knoll, a figure hid behind a marble statue of an angel that sat atop another grave. He had arrived long before the funeral cortege had slowly snaked its way down the winding road and the grieving family members had exited the limousine. He really had little interest in watching the grim-faced pallbearers, nor could he hear the comforting words of the clergyman or Burke’s tribute to a fallen comrade. Nevertheless, he was very alert. Mozzie had to be vigilant because, at this moment in time, he was watching Neal’s back.


	3. Chapter 3

The wheels kept turning in the White Collar office. Possible suspects were found and detained before being grilled relentlessly in interrogation rooms. It was Peter who spearheaded every round of questioning. Unfortunately, his infamous gut instinct wasn’t giving him any insights, and each former criminal was ultimately released from their custody. Members of the team leaned hard on their snitches on the street, but if the streets had any secrets, they weren’t giving them up. Every agent seemed to be multi-tasking—researching their fellow-colleagues’ murders while still working new cases involving fraud, embezzlement, and the assorted pyramid scheme. It was frustrating for everyone. The Behavioral Analysis Unit continued to check in routinely from Washington, but there was no further fuel to stoke their fire. That is, until two months later when another assassination of a White Collar agent occurred.

Louise Arnold was a young, enthusiastic African-American woman who was proud to wear the coveted FBI shield. She was well-educated, extremely smart, and learning on-the-fly was her forte. People knew that she was going places with her ambitious drive and can-do attitude. Peter Burke saw that potential over a year ago when she was barely out of Quantico, and had enticed her to join his team. She became a valuable asset that he could mold and mentor.

Louise lived in one of those narrow shotgun houses in Queens with a minuscule front yard and a somewhat larger grassier space in the back. That suited her needs quite nicely because it was a fenced-in area where her German Shepherd could roam when she didn’t have the time to walk him in the dog park. At present, she and her canine housemate lived alone since Louise’s husband, Brad, had been deployed six months ago to Afghanistan. She was eagerly awaiting the end of his tour of duty when they could be united once again.

Louise Arnold took Agent Burke’s warning to heart and had stopped jogging in the neighborhood or even walking her dog after dusk. Tonight, as had become her routine, she let the German Shepherd out into the backyard and then gathered her small drawstring kitchen trash bag and walked to the tiny side path that separated her house from her neighbor’s. She had just dropped the parcel into the garbage can and was turning to retrace her steps. In that instant, one precisely-placed shot tore through her heart and she dropped like a stone. Local investigating police officers discovered her body when the next-door neighbor called to report that Louise’s dog, Wilhelm, had been frantically barking for over an hour. The caller was an older widow too afraid to do her own investigating.

The local PD stepped aside and gave the FBI carte blanche to work the murder of one of their own. The federal forensics team determined that the fatal shot had been fired from between the two houses directly across the street, and the coroner concurred that the bullet came from the same sniper rifle that had killed Steve Brennan. The lurking assassin had left no trace of himself at the scene. The area where he had probably stood was paved with cobblestones, so there were no footprints to capture in quick-setting polymer molds, no errant hairs nor stray threads from his clothing on the ground. There was just nothing except for a timely and untraceable email in Peter Burke’s inbox.

_“Your little ‘dream team’ members are falling like dominos, Agent Burke. How does that make you feel?”_

It made Peter feel wretched and impotent and full of rage as he attended yet another burial in another cemetery. He stood before Brad Arnold and offered what amounted to pitiful platitudes about the man’s wife. The Marine, tall and erect in his dress uniform, made no attempt to wipe away the steady stream of tears that coursed down his agonized face.

“Louise was so proud to be an FBI agent,” he said softly. “It was her greatest wish come true, and she had so much respect for you, Agent Burke. My wife was always determined to prove herself, and she was steadfast and courageous, even though I couldn’t help but worry about her safety. But then I thought to myself—Louise’s job is in White Collar crime, so how much danger could there be in that?”

Peter didn’t have a plausible or comforting answer for the distraught and grieving man.

The Behavioral Analysis Unit was back on the scene once more. Other reinforcements arrived from within the New York Bureau as well. Volunteers from the Homicide Division, and even Ruiz’s team at Organized Crime, all vowed to lend a hand. A tip hotline with a substantial reward attached if it led to credible information was quickly mobilized and it started ringing off the hook almost immediately. Warm bodies from various in-house units answered every call. However, as yet, nothing useful had been offered. Even psychics got into the act and proffered their clairvoyance free of charge. One day later, Peter unleashed an unplanned personal message to the unsub when he was waylaid by an eager mob of news reporters assembled on the Bureau steps. Hughes almost had a stroke when he saw it played over and over on the television. Peter had acted like a runaway freight train as he spewed out his venom.

 _“If you have an ax to grind with the Bureau, or with me personally, crawl out of your dark, little hole and have the guts to get in contact with us,”_ he had snarled _. “We’ll be waiting to hear your grievance or to put you into a grave! Your choice, you coward, because your days are numbered.”_

Peter paid for his temperamental lapse in judgment. “That was feeding into the killer’s ego,” he was firmly chastised by the lead profiler later that day. “He’s getting just what he wants—your frustrated attention. He knows that he’s got you on the ropes and is reveling in that very fact.”

“Right,” Peter bellowed right back, “he’s wanted my attention for over a year, so I just made sure that he knows that he finally has it!”

The profiler tried to placate the furious man. “Agent Burke, this unsub is devolving, and that will make him more brazen and, hopefully, sloppier, as well. He will trip himself up in time.”

“We don’t have time,” Peter argued. “He’s killing at a faster pace with no end in sight.”

Hughes had listened to the exchange and had been silent up until this moment. “Peter, perhaps it’s time for you to step away, at least for a while.”

“Reese, you can’t take me off this case!” Peter insisted.

“I can, and I will,” Hughes maintained.

“Okay, I’m really sorry that I mouthed off and it won’t happen again,” Peter promised.

The old section chief stood firm. “It’s really not about what you said; it’s about what is at the core of this problem—and that’s you, Peter. You are this killer’s agenda, and your very presence in the White Collar office has, and probably will, continue to put your team at risk. For the time being, you are going to stand down. I’m not saying that we’ll keep you out of the loop, but there needs to be a new figurehead in charge of your unit, at least until we nail this bastard. I’ve already contacted Bancroft, and he has a willing ASAC coming in later today from Chicago to take your place. I intend to make him or her very visible so that the serial killer is knocked off his stride. Don’t worry, Peter. We’re not going to throw you to the wolves. You and Elizabeth will be taken to a safe house for the time being, and some sort of communication can be set up between you, the new replacement, and your team.”

Peter was stunned. “So you want me to go into hiding, Reese? For how long—a month, six months, a year? If I’m removed from the equation, this unsub might go underground as well and just bide his time until I resurface.”

“There’s always that chance, but it’s the only viable solution that I could come up with at the present time to safeguard future lives,” Hughes claimed.

Peter continued to argue. “And it could also be that ‘trigger’ that the profilers say is responsible for tipping unstable people over the edge. If my absence pisses off the killer, that maniac could get off the elevator with an Uzi in his hands and take out as many agents as possible in a bloody massacre.”

“Any option that we employ holds considerable risks,” Hughes admitted, “but we have to change the rules of the game, nonetheless. Now, go home to your wife Peter. I’ll be in touch shortly.”

Peter left Hughes’ office in a state of shock. He had never been one to back down from a fight, and he didn’t want to throw in the towel now. But then he did feel guilty for being the impetus behind all those sacrificed lives. Like moths to the flame, Neal, Diana, and Jones each silently drifted into Peter’s office after the earlier loud confrontation between their boss and the big chief.

“I’m off the case, at least temporarily,” he told them in an even voice. “It’s not supposed to be a punishment, but rather a preventive measure for the future wellbeing of the team. There’s going to be a new sheriff in town tomorrow, so make me proud, guys.”

“Man, that really stinks, Peter,” Jones huffed out his displeasure. “You’ve been working your butt off right alongside of us during this whole debacle.”

“He’s right,” Diana chimed in. “Nobody could ever replace you in a million years, Boss. But on the flip side of the coin, I can understand Hughes’ careful logic. I think he’s just trying to protect you, as well as all of us until we can sort this out and nab the bad guy.”

Neal had been quiet up until this point. Now his blue eyes met Peter’s brown ones, and a flood of communication and mutual understanding passed between them. “I’m not sure that I’m up for breaking in a new handler,” he said softly.

“Oh, don’t get your knickers in a twist, Neal,” Diana said decisively. “I’ll take you on and ride herd on your skinny ass until Peter comes back.”

“Thanks—I think,” Neal answered cautiously.

Peter tried to keep his tone of voice low. “Listen guys, somehow I’ll stay in contact and we’ll still be working in tandem. But I will miss being here with all of you, even one very talented forger and sticky-fingered con man who, thankfully, is nonviolent and hates guns. Why couldn’t all White Collar criminals follow his example?”

“We may be a tame bunch, but we’d still be hard to catch,” Neal smirked.

Peter forced himself to smile as he quickly packed his personal belongings into an empty banker’s box. He held his head high as he exited the room where every agent stood at attention as he passed. He might be down for the count, but he definitely wasn’t out yet! There was still unfinished business.

~~~~~~~~~~

Elizabeth certainly wasn’t happy about the upcoming disruption in their lives, but she was also worried about her husband’s safety. She quickly made arrangements for her trusted assistant, Yvonne, to take over the reins of Burke’s Premier Events, and then entrusted Satchmo to the care of a neighbor. A generic black SUV pulled up later that night under the cover of darkness, and two exiled people, suitcases in hand, were whisked away to a small cracker box tract house in Newark. The subdivision was located in an international airport’s flight path, and jet engines routinely roared above their heads at all times of the day and night.

Special Agent Susan Woodson, the new temporary replacement for Peter, slid into his seat at the office but kept herself far removed from his life. She made no attempts to liaison with her predecessor, and both Diana and Jones claimed that she seemed rather cold and insular. Neal didn’t express an opinion. He was primarily concerned with keeping his head down and staying out of her way. Peter’s three trusted inside moles used burner phones to keep their former boss informed of any progress in the serial killer case—or, more accurately, the lack of progress. Then one morning, two weeks later, everything changed, and the consequences held catastrophic implications.

Early on a Wednesday morning, Peter heard a loud pounding on his front door. He immediately drew his service weapon and cautiously pulled the window shade away from the wall to see who was so impatient and demanding. Shocked didn’t even cover his emotional state when he spied an agitated Mozzie repeatedly raising his fist to continue the pummeling. Peter quickly opened the door and dragged Neal’s friend by the front of his jacket into the room.

“How did you even know where I was, Mozzie?” he shouted at the little man before him.

Mozzie’s eyes darted past Peter’s shoulder for just an instant, and when the dumbfounded FBI agent turned, he saw El looking sheepish.

“It doesn’t matter how I know,” Mozzie said quickly to regain Peter’s attention. “What matters is that Neal is missing! June called to tell me the Marshals are tearing her house apart as we speak because Neal has been off the radar since 4 a.m.”

“Damn it, he ran,” Peter growled. “This is the worst possible timing for his shenanigans, but with me out of the picture, he saw an opportunity and he took it!”

“You’re a nincompoop, Suit!” Mozzie bellowed. “Think it through, G-Man. I’m standing right in front of you, so that should give you a clue. Neal would never leave without me. Somebody took him, and it’s probably that serial killer you’ve been ducking. Great strategy on the part of the FBI! The lot of you are a bunch of imbecilic bone-heads.”

Neal’s little bald friend seemed to suddenly deflate before Peter’s eyes. “It’s my fault; I should have been watching his back,” he murmured miserably.

“No, Mozzie, it’s my fault for ever agreeing to stand down from doing what I should have been doing,” Peter said forcefully. “I’m going to go back where I belong and take up where I left off—the place where I should have been the whole time.”

Poor Mozzie endured the perilous drive back to Manhattan while gripping the overhead strap as if his life depended on it. Peter drove like a maniac, cutting fellow motorists off who got in his way, ignoring traffic lights and stop signs left and right. The little misanthrope beside him finally exhaled and tried to get his frantic heart beat under control when they screeched to a stop in front of the Federal Building. Like a loyal little terrier, he scurried to keep up the pace behind Peter as he led the way to the 21st floor.

As Peter strode determinedly through the bullpen, Hughes stepped onto the balcony outside his office with his eyebrows reaching for his hairline. “Peter, you shouldn’t be here right now,” he said firmly. “And who is that lurking behind you?”

“He’s with me,” Peter answered tersely as he took the stairs two at a time with Mozzie stuck to him like glue. ASAC Woodson had also stepped out into the hall when the commotion began. Peter swooped past her and claimed the chair behind his old desk. He quickly accessed his work email and there it was.

_“You can’t simply stop playing our game, Agent Burke. You have to see it through to the bitter end. Your inattention has caused your pawn to be sacrificed, so now it’s checkmate!”_


	4. Chapter 4

The entire White Collar team was assembled once again in the conference room. That’s where they could be found, day after dreary day, as they did everything in their power to find a lead in Neal’s disappearance. Mozzie was now a semi-permanent member of the crew. He showed up bright and early each morning wearing his visitor’s pass that now had a tiny sticker of _“Deputy Dawg”_ covering his own face. Temporary ASAC Woodson had left in a huff days ago, making it clear that she knew when she was a fifth wheel. Neither Hughes nor Peter had heard any repercussions from Bancroft. The profilers continued to scratch their heads and they didn’t offer much hope.

“The unsub’s use of the word ‘sacrifice’ would indicate that he has killed your CI, Agent Burke. You need to come to terms with that.”

“I’m not coming to terms with anything until I see his corpse with my own eyes,” Peter argued. “Each time that this madman killed in the past, he left the bodies where they lay. This time he left nothing behind except a severed anklet.”

The profiler laid out his supposition, and it wasn’t comforting. “The killer may have decided to take Mr. Caffrey’s body and hide it to make you worry and wonder, just as you are doing now. It’s so much crueler than simply leaving him out in the open to be found. He could have been dumped in the Hudson or buried in a secluded woods somewhere. I’m sorry to say that perhaps you’ll never know where he is, Agent Burke.”

~~~~~~~~~~

“I just can’t accept that he’s really dead,” Peter told Mozzie when they were sitting at an outdoor table grabbing a quick bit to eat.

“I can’t either, Peter,” Mozzie said softly using the FBI agent’s first name. The two men had grown a bit less adversarial these past weeks due to the circumstances that had them working together. “I’d feel an aberration in my force field if Neal were no longer with us. I know you’re probably going to say that I’m a kook, but I do sometimes have these moments of ethereal awareness on another plane.”

“Whatever gets you through the night, Mozzie,” Peter said quietly. “As for me, well, I would much prefer to envision him with you on some tropical island holding a mai tai in his hand and ogling pretty girls in bikinis.”

Mozzie sighed. “I’ve been trying to convince him to do just that for years, but Neal always had an excuse for staying put. I think, in a nutshell, _you_ were really the ‘excuse,’ although he never came right out and said it.”

“He always was a complicated hot mess of contradictions,” Peter said fondly.

“Not really,” Mozzie disagreed. “He was pretty easy to understand if you knew his motivations. Everybody considered Neal to have a very healthy, even overblown ego, and that’s the persona that he presented to the world. However, deep down, he was really insecure and was always searching for validation. He had to prove himself over and over because, as a kid, he didn’t feel that he had any value. He was abandoned in so many ways by people who should have loved and protected him and nurtured his sense of self-worth.”

“I valued him, Moz,” Peter murmured.

“So, perhaps that’s the real reason that he stayed in your world,” Mozzie said smugly.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal’s world right now was confusing—a disjointed kaleidoscope of colors that came together briefly and then shattered apart like falling iridescent snowflakes. Total awareness was always just out of reach. Sometimes there was a brightness that had him feeling as if he were riding on puffy white clouds, and, at other times, he seemed trapped within a maze of darkness. He felt hands touch his body, and perceived motion as he was turned in different positions. Floating—he was always floating high above something as if he were having an out of body experience.

Occasionally, he imagined that he was not alone. Perhaps there may have been some ghostly apparition nearby because the air around him would grow heavier from time to time. Soon after, there would be a brief a stab of pain, but Neal couldn’t process the stimulus. Instead, he found himself being mentally dragged down, incapable of coherent thought. Eventually, there were only disturbing feelings of being lost and afraid. He possessed no will of his own, reacting only to his own senses and to harshly spoken commands somewhere in the ether. “Drink,” a voice demanded as he felt a tube being forced between his lips. So, Neal drank, and his palate detected what may have been the taste of vanilla. Then there was blessed oblivion for a while.

In time, the unseen presence in that nether world began to orchestrate a series of dialogues. Neal quickly fixated on something that seemed more concrete in his limbo. At first, he was befuddled and had to determinedly concentrate on the insistent instruction to go back in time to his childhood. It was a bit easier to focus when the faceless voice laid out the parameters of this sojourn into his past.

“You are three-years-old, Neal. What are you doing?”

“Playin’,” he finally answered simply.

“Are you a happy little boy?” came the next question.

Neal simply nodded his head or thought that he did.

“Are you afraid of anything, Neal? Do you think there may be monsters hiding in your closet or trolls living under your bed?”

Neal reacted by moving his head from side to side.

“Are you sure?” the voice taunted.

“Not real. Just in storybooks.” Neal claimed.

“Not true, Neal. Monsters are real, and they can come for you at any time to hurt and kill you or those whom you love. We’ll talk about that later. Now go back to your dreams,” the voice said as Neal felt some type of breeze waft across his face.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next time that the nebulous voice broke into Neal’s psyche, it took him to a time in the past when he was a bit older.

“Are you happy or sad now?” the voice wanted to know.

“Sad,” Neal answered forlornly.

“Tell me why you are sad, Neal? What is happening around you?”

“I’m all alone,” Neal answered in a child-like voice.

“Where are your parents?” came the insistent query.

“Dun’ know,” Neal whispered.

“Yes, you do. Tell me,” the voice prodded.

“Not sure. Nobody told me where Daddy is, and Mommy is very sad. I don’ want to be alone.”

“So, you’re afraid?” was the question.

“Yes, because I’ve lost them,” Neal responded.

“And you love your mother and your father, don’t you Neal?”

“Yes,” was the unequivocal response.

“And you’re afraid of losing people that you love,”

“Yes,” Neal answered honestly.

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” was the glib response.

~~~~~~~~~~

At the next interrogation session, the voice brought Neal closer to the present and used the con man’s newly-discovered Achilles Heel for his own nefarious ends.

“Tell me, Neal—have you ever deeply loved someone with your whole heart and soul?”

“Kate,” Neal whispered the name reverently.

“Did you lose her?” was the next question.

“Yes, I lost her,” Neal acknowledged sadly.

“How did you lose her?”

“Adler killed her,” the con man easily provided the information.

The mind manipulator ended the session abruptly because he had some fact-finding to do. It wasn’t hard to get the picture if you knew where to look, even if your destination was behind a ridiculously feeble firewall at the FBI. The Internet highway was a wonderful thing for inquiring minds. So, armed with new  information, the serial killer began to distort it to attain his goal.

~~~~~~~~~~

“Vincent Adler was one of those monsters that we talked about, Neal. He took Kate away from you and made you feel lost and alone. Don’t you think he should be punished?”

“Adler’s dead. Peter killed him,” Neal said without emotion.

“That’s just what Peter Burke wanted you to think, Neal. He was playing you for a trusting fool. Burke and Adler were in this scheme together. They wanted to control and manipulate you like a marionette for their own purposes. Kate got in their way and she had to be eliminated to make you vulnerable. So, they made you think that Adler died that day outside the warehouse with all those masterpieces. He isn’t really dead. Adler’s alive and well and laughing at you. In fact, I know where he is right now.”

“My artwork was in the warehouse, not masterpieces,” Neal claimed.

“The artwork doesn’t matter, Neal. Both Adler and Peter Burke were colluding, and they are guilty of killing the woman that you loved. They took her away from you so that you were all alone. They need to pay for doing that to you, and I can help you get your rightful revenge on those demons in your life.”

“Adler’s dead,” Neal insisted. “Saw it happen.”

“That’s what you think you saw, Neal, but it was a carefully orchestrated charade. And Adler’s not done. You’re supposed to be his next victim. He’s going to come for you. He’s one of the monsters, and you’ll have to protect yourself from him. Do you think that you can do that? Can you kill him before he kills you?”

“Dunno,” was the troubling answer.

“Well, we’ll just have to work on your resolve a bit longer until you _are_ sure,” the voice promised.

~~~~~~~~~~

Two and a half months later, the White Collar unit had returned to some sense of normalcy. There had been no more cryptic emails from the serial killer and the body count hadn’t risen. The profilers had jetted off to some undisclosed location to deal with another deadly madman. Since Hughes had given him a pass on his earlier indiscretion, Peter had reclaimed his old office permanently. However, a forlorn Peter refused to have Neal’s desk vacated. The small bust of Socrates was still perched on the corner, and Neal’s annoying rubber band ball remained in the top drawer. Peter just wished that the young man was here to personally get on his last nerve. Mozzie still held out the tenuous hope that one day the handsome con man would swan back into their lives as if nothing had ever happened. Peter also wished that he had Mozzie’s dedicated faith.

It was the middle of a boring week revolving around counterfeit currency being distributed in the neighborhood boroughs, and Peter finally called a halt to the tedious task when Jones and Diana’s interest started to flag in the late afternoon.

“Go home—both of you. We’ll pick this whole business up again tomorrow after a good night’s sleep,” their boss told them.

Diana was glad to be a bit early picking up little Theo from daycare, and Jones decided to stop at his favorite Chinese restaurant for carryout before going home to his little apartment alcove beneath a Manhattan brownstone. He buttoned up his down-filled parka and bid farewell to his colleagues outside the FBI building a little before five p.m. He ran his errand and was hurrying home in the cold air when he noticed a black SUV glide to a stop at the curb outside his apartment. The passenger door opened, and Jones actually dropped his food bag when a figure emerged. Unbelievably, Jones found himself face-to-face with Neal Caffrey.

“Caffrey?” he murmured in disbelief.

The thin figure in jeans and a black pea coat was barely six feet away, and that person stood ramrod straight with his feet spread stiffly apart. He seemed to be exhibiting a thousand-yard stare, and Jones wondered if Caffrey even saw him, or was simply looking right through him. The hairs on the back of Jones’ neck started to prickle, and he was slow to react when he saw the missing con man raise his arm and point a gun in his direction.

“Neal, …what the hell, man?” Jones asked in a puzzled rather than panicked tone. “C’mon, Pal, lower that gun and we’ll talk.”

Neal didn’t hear anything that Jones said. He was listening to the voice in his head telling him to pull the trigger and send Vincent Adler to eternal damnation. That made sense. This man in front of him was a threat. He was also a killer—first Kate had fallen, and now he would be the next victim if Neal didn’t react first to protect himself. He could see Adler’s smug face and hear his condescending voice. He had to do this. The voice told him so.

Then, out of nowhere, he heard another voice—Peter’s. “You’re not a killer, Neal. That’s not who you are.”

Neal shook his head and squinted his eyes to look at the apparition in front of him. It was Adler, but then, for a brief second, it was Agent Garrett Fowler. Neal’s bleary vision saw light skin and light hair that suddenly morphed into darker skin and darker hair. Voices came at him from all sides. Somebody kept saying, “Don’t do this,” over and over trying to drown out the other voice that urged, “Do it, Neal!”

Neal found that the arm he had stiffly extended was starting to ache. He was at a crossroads and was unsure what to do. He actually startled when he heard the gun fire. In the seconds afterwards, he stared woodenly at the body that had flown backwards from the impact and now lay crumbled on the sidewalk. Finally, like a robot, Neal turned in the direction of the voice telling him to get back into the car. He slowly obeyed and fell into a stupor as it screeched away.


	5. Chapter 5

“Well, this is one big embarrassing mess,” Hughes huffed. He was watching CCTV footage of Neal Caffrey shooting Clinton Jones point blank in the chest. “You got your wish, Peter. Your CI isn’t dead. Instead, he’s out and about killing other people.”

“Still here, Sir, and definitely not dead,” Jones intoned quietly from his seat around a conference table that included Peter, Diana, and even Mozzie.

“That’s only thanks to that thick winter coat and the protective tactical vest that you were wearing,”  Hughes retorted. “I can’t understand how you can be so forgiving towards a man who managed to give you two cracked ribs. Caffrey tried to blow you away, Agent Jones. Haven’t you processed that fact yet?”

“It wasn’t Neal,” Jones insisted, “at least not the Neal that we know. The guy standing in front of me was like some zombie inhabiting Caffrey’s body.”

“Something is definitely wrong, Reese,” Peter insisted. “Neal would never intentionally do this. So much doesn’t make any sense. Just look at that whole scene on the monitor and try to convince me that it adds up. Neal is always careful and meticulous, and he compulsively did his reconnaissance when I was chasing him all those years ago. It’s a slam dunk that he knew about the very obvious street cams, so why would he advertise that he was the shooter?”

“To rub your nose in it,” Hughes replied.

“No, I think that’s something that reeks of our serial killer’s tactics,” Peter said thoughtfully. “Maybe that’s who is controlling him now. The bastard’s email today made that crystal clear.”

Peter was referring to the succinct but taunting message, _“See, Agent Burke, I can dismantle your team in so many different ways, even by utilizing your prize pet.”_

Diana grimaced. “I don’t think enough time has gone by for Neal to develop Stockholm Syndrome, Peter. There has to be another answer.”

Mozzie had been quiet, which was uncharacteristic for somebody who always had an opinion. He had the camera footage on a loop and was watching it over and over again. Finally, he added his two cents as he froze the section when the gun was fired.

“See that, Suits—Neal actually flinched when the shot happened. There’s your proof. If he was the one actually pulling the trigger, he would have steeled himself to take steady aim and to prepare himself for the recoil. I don’t think the bullet came from the gun Neal was holding. I’ll bet your techs can scan this image for thermal heat signatures or something along those lines, and actually determine if the weapon in Neal’s hand was really fired. The shot could have come from inside that SUV.”

“And maybe you’re grasping at straws,” Hughes snorted. “Pictures don’t lie, and you can’t change what is right in front of your face.”

“And that’s the other thing, Suits—Neal’s face,” Mozzie rambled on ignoring the department head. It remained a mystery why Hughes hadn’t ejected the pesky irritant from the premises long before this discussion was taking place.

“Look at his expression when he turns back to get into the SUV,” Mozzie said excitedly. “The camera caught him head-on, and Neal’s face is completely blank and devoid of any emotion. He looks like a zombie, just like Jones said. Which leads me to another theory.”

“Do tell,” Diana said as she rolled her eyes.

“ _Devil’s Breath_ ,” Mozzie exclaimed triumphantly.

Heads around Mozzie slowly began to nod in awareness, and only Hughes looked confused. So, the little bald man launched into an explanation.

“ _Devil's Breath_ is a drug derived from the flower of the ‘borrachero’ shrub, common in the South American country of Colombia. The seeds, when powdered and extracted via a chemical process, contain a substance similar to scopolamine called ‘burandanga.’ Borrachero and its derivative have been used for hundreds of years by native South Americans in spiritual rituals. It has a reputation for turning people into zombies, wiping victims' memories and enforcing a lack of free will. In high doses, it can be lethal.

People who have been dosed with the stuff reported feeling drowsy and disconnected from their surroundings, experiencing clouded vision, incoherent speech, and even frightening hallucinations. After recovery, they claim to have no memory of what happened. They can be easily manipulated, and, while under the influence of the drug, are highly susceptible to suggestion. Devil’s Breath is quite potent in any form that it is administered. It can be delivered intravenously or via ingested food or drink. The powder form can even be blown into a victim’s face so that they inhale it, or the pores of their skin absorb it.

There are documented cases of women being raped without their knowledge, of wealthy people signing away all their assets to a conniving manipulator, and some unaware souls even allowing an organ to be extracted from their bodies while under the influence. It’s happened all over the world in places such as Britain, Spain, and France, to name a few. It’s one of the Colombian drug cartels most lucrative products.”

“Okay, let’s run with that theory,” Peter said with a new conviction in his voice. “I’ll call the boys in Narcotics and try to get a handle on who is peddling this stuff in our city, and we’ll bring them in to sweat them until they give up their buyers. You, Mozzie, put out your feelers to the underground community for the same information. All of this may not pan out, but it’s the only possible lead that we have at the moment.”

~~~~~~~~~~

The serial assassin was not particularly thrilled with yesterday’s little experiment on the street. He had thought that Neal was primed and ready to go, but the guy had balked coming out of the starting gate. He hadn’t been able to carry through on the subliminal suggestion the killer had instilled in his mind. Well, that was just a minor hiccup in the killer’s grand plan. He had taken care of business himself, and Burke probably had written his precious CI off as a disappointing lost cause, not to mention the fact that the pontificating federal buffoon now had one less agent in his Harvard Crew. “Sayonara, Agent Jones—it was nothing personal. You were just collateral damage in this war I’m waging with your boss.”

Neal had remained placid after the killer brought him home, and it didn’t seem necessary to add as much enchanted lethal juice to the IV line in his arm. Maybe that was the problem. Perhaps he had been putting the now very thin young man too far under for the suggestions to take hold. Maybe less was more in this scenario. However, they would have a little chat tonight. Some psychological reinforcement seemed necessary.

The assassin put his own weapon, a Smith and Wesson, into a drawer and removed the ammo from the Browning pistol that he had given his prisoner. He carried it into the adjacent bedroom and placed the now empty gun into Neal’s hands. Neal simply stared at his tormentor with vacant eyes and didn’t respond, but his jailor wasn’t deterred.

“You used this to kill somebody, Neal, and that was a good and righteous thing,” he said softly. “You took care of a very evil man who needed to die. Vincent Adler got what he deserved for hurting Kate and ripping her away from you forever. That had to have felt good; you know it did. Now, there’s just one person left to pay the piper. You have to kill once more. Hold this gun in your hand, Neal, and feel its weight, feel its power. Now, it makes _you_ powerful. Look down the sight and see your next target. He’s the last monster standing, and he will try to hurt you if you let him. Don’t allow that to happen. You have to act to protect yourself from him. Visualize his face, Neal, then take careful aim and pull the trigger. Don’t hesitate this time, just pull the trigger. Do it now! Do it now, Neal!”

Suddenly the hammer came down on an empty chamber not just once, but again and again and again—click, click, click. The serial killer smiled. Peter Burke was as good as dead.

~~~~~~~~~~

Neal was experiencing disturbing dreams that night. Actually, the dreams were more like terrifying nightmares and hallucinations. He was lost in a sea of green being pursued by ethereal shape-shifting monsters that grabbed and pulled at him. He tried to twist away from their long fingers, and brought his own hands up to protect himself. The demons kept coming, so he viciously batted at their slender tentacles, but it was almost impossible not to become entangled in their grip. Neal’s heart was racing, and with great effort he finally broke free, only to find himself alone in a semi-darkened room sitting on a narrow cot. He was wearing a thin cotton t-shirt, and he felt cold and clammy. Shivering, the frightened man tried to hug his arms around himself. It was then that he saw his own blood slowly oozing from the inside of his elbow. A needle attached to long, sinuous tubing lay on the sheet beside him, and he vaulted from the bed as if it were a venomous snake.

Suddenly, Neal was more afraid than ever, and some inner voice told him that he had to get away from whatever monsters still lurked in the room. He went to the only door in his prison and quietly turned the knob. It was locked from the other side, and the feeling of panic ratcheted up in Neal’s chest. As he quickly looked around, he realized a window set in an adjacent wall was his last resort. He felt tears of frustration sting his eyes when he found that means of escape also had some type of key lock in place. However, that same little inner voice reassured him. “You can do this, Neal.”

Right, he could do this; he just needed some kind of tool! There was a small wooden table standing beside an IV pole and the rumpled cot. Thankfully, it provided the necessary implements when Neal found two pre-packaged syringes with large-bore needles encased in plastic sleeves. He could use those sturdy needles to jimmie the lock on the window. But there was also something else on that table. Neal recoiled when he saw a gun. Now bits and pieces were coming back to him that eventually became an avalanche of disturbing visions. He had killed someone on a street in some city. He felt himself pull the trigger of a gun—that gun—over and over until the chamber was empty. He had killed, and he must kill again. That thought became paramount in his mind, a mandate from some higher power. He had to do this!

Old skills were resurrected from muscle memory, and the window lock quickly clicked open after Neal set to work. As he then quietly raised the bottom panel, a blast of cold, arctic air blew in. The escape artist grabbed a thin blanket that lay on the floor and wrapped it around his shoulders. He also tucked the gun into the waistband of his jeans before shimmying to freedom.

Now that he had finally escaped from his prison, Neal had no idea where to go. He stumbled along blindly, losing his balance more than once. When he looked up above him, it seemed as if the sky was a vast dark dome that was threatening to crush him, so he pushed himself up from the ground and struggled on in  panicked flight. After a while, harsh noises assaulted his ears—motors racing, horns honking, even some sirens off in the distance. Looking down, Neal saw there was pavement under his feet now, and the occasional person jostled him as they hurried by with their heads down. Neal was tired and beyond cold. He was afraid that if he stopped, he’d never be able to move again. He leaned against a brick wall, only to become fixated on the glowing aura of a streetlamp. He didn’t know how long he had remained in one place, but suddenly someone was talking to him, and it wasn’t the voice in his head.

“What did you say?” Neal asked the empty air.

“I said it looks like you is having yourself a bad trip, my friend.”

Neal turned in the direction of the voice and came face to face with someone with a predatory look. The heavily tattooed would-be mugger was grinning, thinking Neal was easy prey. He changed his assumption when the young man let the blanket drop from his shoulders and took a gun from the waistband of his pants.

“Whoa, young dude,” the tough guy sputtered as he held up his hands. “I ain’t mean you no harm, so just chill, bro!”

The eerie, empty look in Neal’s eyes caused flop sweat to suddenly break out on the mugger’s forehead. He took a chance and bolted, hoping he wouldn’t feel a bullet from that gun enter his back. Neal watched his fleeing retreat with a sense of detachment. He picked up his blanket, tucked his gun away once more, and ambled on.

Some primitive instinct of survival told Neal that he had to seek shelter from the cold. He found the ideal place when he came abreast of a 24-hour laundromat. He quickly went inside the almost vacant space. The few occupants were either dozing in the plastic chairs scattered about or talking animatedly on their phones. Neal felt invisible when they ignored his presence. The almost frozen-to-the-bone man found the warmth from the tumbling industrial dryers a welcome comfort. He opened a few, and was lucky enough to find more heavy and sturdier clothing. The flannel shirt and polyester jacket were a bit large for his now emaciated frame, but the garments were better than strolling the streets like a bag person in his current attire.

Almost sorry to leave this sanctuary, Neal went out onto the streets once again. He had a mission to perform, but for the rest of the night, he needed a safe place to rest. He prowled various alleyways until he found a backdoor he could access using a wire hanger from a nearby dumpster. He then hunkered down in the kitchen of a warm diner near what he finally recognized as Manhattan’s Lower East Side. He left long before the eatery opened for business. Now he was wearing gloves, a scarf, and a black watch cap that he had found in a back room. Little by little, his mind was clearing itself of the psychotropic drugs. Now, if he could just get rid of the voice in his head.


	6. Chapter 6

The White Collar team had a mandate, too. They were now in search and rescue mode. The Narcotics Division of the local PD was a wealth of information, and suspected dealers of Devil’s Breath were questioned, one after the other. Sometimes it was in an FBI interrogation room, and sometimes it was on the street. Peter and Jones worked as a two-man unit, pounding on doors with search warrants in their hands courtesy of accommodating judges. Eventually, they busted one guy with bags of a suspicious powder in a locked cabinet. Peter’s Spidey senses went on high alert.

“Jones take this unknown substance back to the FBI lab so that they can test it. Don’t open it, smell it, or touch it, and tell the techs what we think it may be. They’ll know the protocol for handling what could be Devil’s Breath. In the meantime, I’ll just stay here and babysit our friend until I get the go-ahead from you to make an arrest.”

“Peter, are you sure?” Jones wanted to know. “We can take this guy in on suspicion of dealing drugs until the lab tells us the results. We can hold him back at the FBI lockup. You don’t have to stay here with him.”

“Yes, I do,” Peter said forcefully as he stared intently at Jones. “Mr. Smith and I can shoot the breeze and have ourselves a little conversation while we wait.”

“Right,” Jones said slowly as he got the message. Peter was going rogue and he wanted Jones out of harm’s way when he did. Clinton could only hope that Peter wasn’t about to end his career as a federal agent. Carefully, using latex gloves, Jones placed the suspicious substance into an evidence bag and departed, sending a worried look over his shoulder.

“Well, we’re finally alone,” Peter said softly. “Now we can get cozy and chat.”

The suspect glared up at Peter from a wooden chair in the middle of the room. His hands were zip tied behind him. “You don’t scare me, Fed,” he sneered. “We ain’t gonna be talkin’ bout nothing, ya feel me?”

“Oh, my friend, I think you are operating under dangerous misconceptions on so many levels,” Peter ground out menacingly as he pulled another chair in front of the shackled prisoner. However, he didn’t actually sit down as he explained, “I’m not here as an FBI agent.”

Peter then made a show of removing the badge from his belt and the credentials from his pocket. He carefully laid them on a nearby table. Now, he was back in front of his captive with one foot perched on the empty chair.

“I’m just here as an interested party. You see, I have a dog in this fight, and I need information that you have. Cough it up and you’re home free. If you don’t, there are going to be consequences.”

“You can’t touch me, asswipe. I don’t scare easy!” the trapped man snorted confidently.

Peter didn’t touch the suspect. He simply used his raised his foot on the chair to connect with the man’s chest, and the forceful blow sent the surprised tough guy backwards onto the floor still cinched in his seat.

“Damn, that’s assault, man!” the shocked dealer spit out when he was able to catch his breath. “You can’t do me like that. I want a lawyer and I’m gonna sue yo ass off.”

“You don’t get to have the privilege of a lawyer because you’re not under arrest,” Peter said in a controlled voice as he moved to the victim’s side and raised his foot once again to bring it down forcefully onto the man’s abdomen.

The shackled prisoner was now audibly wheezing. “Fuck, man, what is wrong with you? I don’t deserve no beatdown. I’m jus’ trying to make a livin'. If I snitch on my customers, hell, I be a dead man!”

“You’re moving toward the gates of hell as we speak,” Peter said coldly as he raised his foot yet again. “This time, I’m going to aim for your ribs. I’ll probably be able to break a few, and those lower ones—well, the bones ends of those ribs will probably lacerate your spleen or your liver. You’ll bleed out internally. It’s a slow and painful death, or so I’m told. Do you value your customers' identities that much?”

“Wait, just wait,” the captive implored as tears leaked out of his eyes. “Man, you’re psycho! You’re probably gonna kill me even if I told you stuff.”

“I’m insulted that you think I’m crazy,” Peter replied coolly, shaking his head sadly. “But isn’t it better to take a chance that I won’t kill your sorry ass rather than betting on what’s a sure thing if you don’t cooperate?”

“Okay, okay, maybe we can have ourselves a little off-the-record conversation,” the man begged. “And maybe while we’re conversatin’, you can cut these friggin’ zip ties. I think my hands are goin’ numb.”

Peter had a creepy little smile on his lips as he up-righted his victim’s chair. “Baby steps, my friend. You do something for me and then I do something for you. Do you feel _me_ , now?”

“Look, man, don’t go askin’ about my supplier. I’d be dead meat for sure if I told you that,” the terrified man begged.

“I don’t need to know your supplier,” Peter said amicably as he tried to recall the profilers’ assumptions. “I just want the name of the ‘dudes’ that availed themselves of your product. I’m in a good mood, so I’ll even narrow it down for you to one particular man. Probably white male between the ages of 30 to 45. Speaks like he’s educated and smart, but acts real cagey and careful. Maybe you got a vibe like he could have been ex-military. Perhaps he now lives in the area. I’m sure you don’t invite your customers into your crib, so you probably met him somewhere nearby in the recent past. But you’re street smart, too, right? So, you check out anyone who hasn’t been vetted by your pals in the hood, just so you don’t get burned. Then you do your own recon. Ringing any bells for you?”

“Maybe,” the dealer mumbled.

“No maybes, pal,” Peter ground out in the man’s sweating face. “Either you have a name and a place, or you don’t.”

The dealer suddenly became bolder because he had nothing to lose at this point. “Maybe you and me can do a little deal. I give you some info, and you don’t arrest me for what your guys find in that bag. Maybe you just cut these zip ties and leave me be.”

Peter snickered. “Let me tell you exactly what I am going to do, buddy. This is my deal. I’m going to call my partner and tell him you had nothing to offer. Then I’m going to end you, slowly and painfully. Only then will I cut the zip ties, right before I leave you to rot. You probably won’t be found until your carcass starts to putrefy and begins emitting gasses that stink up the neighbors’ places. When the cops investigate, they’re going to be made aware that the FBI came for a chat, but I’ll swear that I left you breathing and in one piece. Who is going to doubt the word of an FBI agent? The local detectives will just assume that some other disreputable people made assumptions that you turned rat, so they took out their vengeance on you. Getting the picture now, _man_?”

“Yeah, I see it real clear,” the now defeated dealer mumbled, resigned to his fate. “There might be a guy like that who lives off of Delancey Street not far from the Bowery. I only sold to him once ‘bout a month ago. He was kinda scary, ya know, and I thought maybe he might have been an undercover narc, so I did some checkin’. He lived alone, from what I could tell, and he worked in some garage as a mechanic. To tell you the truth, I was happy enough to make his acquaintance just once.”

“You got a name?” Peter asked ominously.

“Nah, we don’t do that social kinda thing in my circle,” the now cooperative man answered, “but I got an address.”

Peter was a man of his word. He cut the zip ties away from the leery man’s wrists, patted him patronizingly on the shoulder, and advised him to relocate far away from Manhattan. When the lab confirmed the results on the Devil’s Breath, he was going to be hunted by the narcotics division of the local PD as well as the FBI.

“Make haste, my friend,” Peter said amicably as he collected his badge and credentials. “It was nice talking with you.”

~~~~~~~~~~

Armed with an address, Peter went back to the Bureau. The tech wizards easily came up with a name for the person living there—38-year-old _Wesley Earl Edgerton_. The name wasn’t sending up any red flags for Peter nor for anybody on the White Collar team. The man had no record, but a black SUV was registered in his name. Time was of the essence, so further research into this character could come later. Hughes was onboard and obtained a no-knock warrant for an FBI Swat team who would enter the premises under the auspices of exigent circumstances. There very likely was an FBI confidential informant being held against his will, so the breech would be deemed legitimate.

The Swat Team did their thing and discovered a treasure trove of evidence inside the ground floor apartment, but, unfortunately, they came up empty finding the suspect or a captive within the walls. However, they did find other damning things. There was a bag of fine powder in a kitchen cabinet, along with a case of liquid protein shakes, intravenous tubing, bags of saline, and a box of 10-gauge hypodermic needles. A closet revealed a rifle with a sniper scope and boxes of ammo for two different semi-automatic weapons. In a second small bedroom, they found a cot with a blood-smeared sheet. The lab would later confirm that the type matched what was on file for Neal Caffrey. Peter was sure that when the forensic team lifted latent fingerprints, some would match Neal’s.

It was a pyrrhic victory. The FBI had a ton of evidence but no suspect and no Neal. An all-points bulletin was issued for Wesley Edgerton and a BOLO for his vehicle. Then the White Collar team began assembling bits and pieces to reconstruct the suspect’s life.

Wesley Edgerton was born and raised in Westport, New York. His parents were now deceased, but during a troubled marriage, there were frequent police reports of spousal abuse against his father, James, that were later dropped by his probably frightened and submissive mother. James Edgerton was an alcoholic terrorizer of both his wife and his son, but he was never held accountable for his cruel behavior.

Luckily, his only child, Wesley, was very bright and intellectually gifted. He escaped the family house of horrors by earning a scholarship to prestigious MIT where he initially excelled in computer science. However, it seemed that Wesley had his father’s temperament. There were numerous episodes of scraps that got out of hand with fellow students. He even challenged some of the professors when they disagreed with his academic ideas. He was put on probation twice, and lost his scholarship because of the infractions. He left college one year shy of earning his degree.

Then a very curious fact was revealed. Several years ago, Edgerton had crossed paths with Peter. He had boldly approached the FBI about a job, and Peter, who was in the process of setting up the innovative White Collar unit, actually interviewed the aspiring candidate who wanted to be part of that new enterprise.

Peter stared at a face on a piece of paper, and it was totally unfamiliar to him. He couldn’t recall ever interviewing this man. He hadn’t left a lasting impression of any kind. However, Peter was a packrat and tended to keep everything. He searched a file cabinet in his office and unearthed his notes on interviews that went back at least ten years. That’s where he found Edgerton, or at least the bare bones of someone who, apparently, would harbor the grudge of a lifetime and become a serial killer.

Peter had made notations on a page stapled to Edgerton’s application. They were informative, making him aware that he had told the aspiring wannabe to finish his college degree and then seek enrolment in the FBI Academy in Quantico. Peter had added a few extra lines below. He had jotted down that the young man seemed to think that those formalities weren’t necessary. He considered himself to be special, and assumed that he would be allowed to leap-frog ahead in the process. Peter had added a judgmental conclusion in the margin _—“Feels intellectually superior and morally entitled, so definitely not a good fit for a team dynamic.”_

After being turned away from the FBI, Edgerton then enlisted in the army and took out his anger and aggression on the battlefield. He was sometimes written up for insubordination when he questioned a superior’s orders, but eventually he did find his niche in sniper training where taking a life was an area in which he excelled. He did three tours in Afghanistan before returning Stateside and settling in the city. It was hard for him to find work during the recession, and he drifted from one menial job to another. He eventually married a young girl, but the union ended after two years when she sought a divorce on the grounds of mental and physical cruelty. That was just about the time when the “New York Times” had published an article lauding Peter Burke and his White Collar team for rescuing a stupendous Nazi treasure of art and other historical artifacts from the clutches of a villain by the name of Matthew Keller. The invading Swat Team had found the preserved newspaper clipping in the suspect’s bedroom dresser drawer.

Peter didn’t need the FBI Behavioral Analysis profilers to connect the dots for him. Edgerton’s life had been a disappointment from the get-go, and being denied what he wanted by Peter caused his wounded pride to fester for years. He probably had buried his disappointment deep, and sublimated his anger and resentment in acceptable ways like being part of the military engaging an enemy. That made him feel important and powerful in the short term. But, having failed at marriage after being mustered out of the service was a trigger for him that seemed to coincide with the newspaper article that rubbed salt into another old open wound. Somebody had to pay for a disgruntled man’s lack of attaining the success to which he felt entitled. Peter would become his focus, and, by default, the White Collar team would become his victims. Neal was supposed to be Edgerton’s latest weapon of mass destruction in this war. Peter fervently hoped that, in the end, his CI wouldn’t become collateral damage.


	7. Chapter 7

By the end of the night, the alerted authorities still had not collared Edgerton, and Neal remained missing as well. Peter fretted about that smear of Neal’s blood on a sheet, and wondered if he was wounded or worse. He also wondered if his young friend was still alive, and, if so, in what kind of shape physically and mentally. What were the long-term effects of keeping someone in a state of psychosis? By 8 p.m. that evening, Peter was finally pushed out the office door by Jones and Diana. He felt a bit guilty on the ride to Brooklyn since Satchmo was home alone and probably had his legs crossed. Sometime earlier, a cautious Peter had made arrangements for El to be taken back to the safe house in Newark.

Peter received an exuberant and grateful greeting from the Yellow Lab when he opened the door of his townhouse. The dog quickly darted into the backyard where there were shrubs and grass for his needs. After hooking his shoulder harness holding his gun over the back of a kitchen chair, Peter started to drag the fixings for a sandwich out of the refrigerator. He also filled the dog’s bowl with dry kibble. When Satchmo quickly completed his business, master and dog ate their respective dinners in silence.

Clean up was easy—just one knife smeared with mayonnaise to be washed and put away. Peter was tired and rubbed his temples in an effort to calm the nagging headache. The stairs leading up to his bedroom looked like Mount Everest at this point, so he simply plopped down on the sofa, laid his head back, and closed his tired eyes. He fell asleep almost immediately, and he wasn’t sure when Satchmo’s excited whining awakened him. The dog was prancing at the back door with his tail swishing happily back and forth. Peter tried to focus as he pushed himself up and started walking towards the kitchen. He didn’t get but a few steps when that door opened, and a thin, dark-clad figure slid into view.

“Neal?” Peter murmured in astonishment as he stared at his young partner who looked haggard and sick. He also looked alarmingly threatening because he was holding a pistol in his hand that was pointed in Peter’s direction.

“Neal,” Peter repeated softly, “I’m glad that you’re here but you need to lower that weapon.”

Neal didn’t answer or obey Peter’s request. Instead he simply cocked his head to the side and looked puzzled.

“Neal,” a wary man began again, “it’s me, Peter, and you’re safe now. I can protect you, so you don’t need that gun. I know that you hate guns, so just put in down, please.”

“Right—you’re Peter and I’m supposed to kill you,” Neal said without inflection.

“No, Buddy, you’re confused. I get that. Let’s sit down and talk so that I can make you understand,” Peter pleaded. “C’mon, Neal, Satchmo is excited to see his old pal. Put the gun down so that you can pay attention to your four-legged friend.”

“He doesn’t have time to make nice with your stupid mutt, _Special_ Agent Burke,” a strident voice suddenly echoed in the room as a man whom Peter now recognized as Wesley Edgerton sauntered in behind Neal. “He has an assignment that’s long overdue. I’ve just been waiting for him to finally show up and take care of business for me. Take your shot, Neal. Pull the trigger now!”

“Neal, don’t listen to him,” Peter cajoled. “You know you’re not a killer, so don’t let him try to turn you into one.”

“I did kill somebody,” Neal insisted.

“No, no, you didn’t,” Peter said adamantly. “That man just made you think so. He tricked you, Neal, just like he’s trying to trick you now. C’mon, Buddy, don’t let him con you. Be smarter than him and outfox the fox.”

“Pull the trigger, Neal. Pull the trigger, Neal,” Edgerton kept up the chant.

Neal’s blue eyes stared into Peter’s brown ones, and the FBI agent let himself believe for a second that he saw clarity there. Maybe Peter was deluding himself. But then Neal did an unexpected spontaneous thing. He turned and flung his gun past Edgerton’s shoulder through the open door into the darkened back yard. The serial killer reacted quickly. He had his own gun in hand which he viciously smashed into Neal’s skull so that the young CI went flying across the kitchen floor before coming to a stop. Satchmo was growling menacingly, and the madman was ranting.

“You are such an arrogant fool, Burke, and I’m going to take you out tonight. Game over. But just so you know, you were really a pompous, short-sighted, and disrespectful jerk years ago. You could have hired me as part of your precious White Collar team. I’m fuckin’ brilliant! That piece of shit on the floor doesn’t have any college degree. Hell, you never even graduated high school. I checked his FBI file. And that little pussy couldn’t fire a gun if his life depended on it!”

“But I can fire a gun if a _friend’s_ life depends on it,” Neal’s voice suddenly came from the floor where he had risen up on an elbow. He had Peter’s Glock from the shoulder harness in his other hand. For a moment, Edgerton was distracted and turned toward the fallen con man. A millisecond later, a bullet penetrated the would-be assassin’s forehead and he crumbled to the floor in a heap.

“Told you I killed somebody,” Neal mumbled almost incoherently as he, too, collapsed back down on the kitchen tiles.

Peter first kicked the gun from Edgerton’s hand. He then rushed to Neal’s side and carefully extricated the other weapon from his lax fingers. The con man appeared to be barely conscious and strangely disassociated from his surroundings.

Now Peter was frantic and speaking in staccato bursts. “Listen to me carefully, Neal. When the cops get here, I’m going to say that I shot Edgerton, not you. You’re a felon on parole, so you don’t need that headache of trying to explain yourself. I’m pretty sure the gun that you brought with you tonight isn’t going to be proven as the one responsible for the assault on Jones. You’re wearing gloves, so that should take care of any gunshot residue on your hands from my weapon if somebody gets suspicious and runs a test. Now, did you understand all of that, Buddy?”

“My gun didn’t have any bullets. I checked,” Neal said dreamily.

“You were holding an empty gun on me, Neal?” Peter was astounded, but Neal was off on another tangent.

“His name was Edgerton?” the confused young man asked with a puzzled expression. “I never knew his name.”

“Yeah, that was his name,” Peter said hurriedly.

“And I assaulted Jones?” was Neal’s next question. “I’ll bet he’s pissed at me.”

“No, not really. You just thought you did, so he’s not mad at you,” Peter quickly explained.

“So, I didn’t shoot anybody but him,” Neal said with a frown as he flicked a thumb in Edgerton’s direction, “but you’re covering it all up.”

“Yeah, now you’re getting the picture,” Peter said with an exasperated sigh.

“Peter, you’re actually coloring outside the lines tonight,” Neal said in surprised awe.

“Oh, Buddy, you have no idea how much scribbling I’ve done all over the page in the last twenty-four hours,” Peter said as he gave a rueful little smile. “I think you’d be impressed if I told you.”

“Does that mean that maybe you won’t tell me?” Neal asked pitifully.

“We’ll see,” was the evasive answer.

~~~~~~~~~~

The next day found Peter, Diana, Jones, and Mozzie all crowded into Neal’s hospital room. He was being held for observation until the physicians were sure all of the illegal drug was out of his body. He was seriously underweight, but a healthy, high-calorie diet would soon put that to rights. A psychiatrist had already made his first visit and seemed hopeful that there would be no residual effects in his brain. Neal remained coherent and appeared to have all of his mental faculties about him. He seemed like the old Neal with his quick sardonic wit and engaging smile.

“Sorry about our last encounter, Jones. I hope there’s no hard feelings,” Neal said to his White Collar colleague.

Jones smiled. “No, Caffrey, it’s all good. Ballistics proved that Edgerton used a Smith and Wesson when he fired at me. Striations on the bullets from the gun in the dead man’s hand confirmed that it was the same weapon. Earlier, we had enhanced the CCTV footage and managed to tentatively identify the gun you were holding outside of my apartment. It looked like a Browning pistol—probably the same empty one you took to Peter’s house. So, you didn’t assault me, although I have to admit that you did freak me out for a minute,” Jones admitted. “It was like I was facing down your evil twin.”

“Nah,” Diana snickered, “his evil twin looks like this,” she claimed as she pointed at Mozzie over in the corner.

“Ha, Ha, Lady Suit,” Mozzie frowned, although he really seemed quite pleased.

“Okay, guys, we need to let the man of the hour get some rest,” Peter proclaimed as he herded his crew towards the door.

However, Mozzie stayed rooted to his chair. When it was just himself and Neal, he offered a suggestion. “The Suit hasn’t reattached your anklet yet. It’s the perfect time to make tracks for our island getaway. You up for it, Neal?” he asked hopefully.

Neal shrugged and gave Mozzie one of his sincerest smiles. “Sorry, Moz, but I think I’m right where I want to be right now. I’m part of a really great team.”


End file.
